Hells Messenger

Fiona woke to the steady sound of water dripping, her neck aching from the awkward position she had been lying in. Her whole body felt sluggish, like she had been swimming through tar just to come back to consciousness. Her breathing was heavy, her chest rising and falling too fast as her senses slowly returned.

When her eyes finally fluttered open, she took in her surroundings—an empty, dimly lit room. A table. A chair. She was sitting. No windows. No obvious way out.

A deep sigh came from behind her.

“I thought for a moment you weren’t coming out of it. That would’ve been a shame.”

She knew that voice. Wesley. The unsettling man in the suit from Confederated Global.

Fiona’s body went rigid, her instincts screaming at her to move, to run. She tried to push herself up, but her legs felt like they were made of rubber, and before she could even make it an inch, Wesley’s hands were on her, pushing her back down.

He tsked, shaking his head. “You might want to take a moment.” He straightened his tie, smoothing down his jacket before lowering himself into the chair across from her. “In the meantime, I thought we could have a little chat.”

Whatever they had given her was still in her system. Her body felt sluggish, her breath shaky, her vision slightly blurred at the edges. Tears pricked at her eyes, frustration mixing with fear.

“You know,” Wesley mused, “funny story. After that Union Allied article, I inquired as to whether you needed…further attention. The general consensus was that you’d already done whatever damage you could. That you were, at best, an inconvenience. A nobody. A very small cog in the machine.” He tilted his head slightly, smiling. “But you just wouldn’t go away, would you, Miss Nelson? And now here we are. This night, this particular moment in time. Perhaps it was always meant to be. Perhaps we’re all simply following a path none of us can truly see, only vaguely sense as it takes our hand and guides us toward the inevitable.”

Fiona swallowed hard, her mouth dry as she forced the words out. “What do you want?”

Wesley leaned forward, pulling out a gun and setting it deliberately on the table between them, the barrel pointing straight at her. “You. Gone.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Do I have your attention?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Fiona sat frozen. She couldn’t move. Wouldn’t move. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was terrified. This was it. She was going to die, and no one would even know what had happened to her.

Not Foggy. Not Matt. Not Karen.

Her family.

“Hello?” Wesley’s voice snapped her out of it, a forced cheeriness laced with impatience. “Could you, like, nod or something?”

Fiona swallowed again, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. “What do you want from me?”

Wesley exhaled sharply, as if bored with the conversation already. “Tell me—do you love this city?”

She blinked. “What?”

“It’s a simple question. Do you love this city?” he repeated.

Fiona clenched her jaw, eyes flicking toward the gun before forcing herself to meet his gaze. “…Yes.”

Wesley leaned back slightly, as if considering her answer. “I’ll be perfectly honest, since the situation calls for it. I do not love this city. The stench of garbage stacked on the sidewalks, the air that clings to you like filth, the grime you can never quite wash away—” he wrinkled his nose, voice calm and measured. “It’s all very unpleasant.”

“Then you should move,” she muttered.

Wesley chuckled, shaking his head. “If only it were that simple.” He laced his fingers together. “I’m not here because I want to be, Ms. Nelson. I’m here because I’m needed.”

“By Fisk?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

Wesley nodded. “He loves this city. Deeply. Almost, I suspect, as much as he loves his mother.”

Fiona’s stomach dropped.

Her blood turned ice cold.

He knew.

He knew she had gone to see his mother.

And if he knew about her—then what about Karen?

Was she next?

“Frankly, I was surprised she remembered you,” Wesley mused, adjusting his cufflinks like this was any other business meeting. “Recent memories for her are fleeting, gossamer… often plucked from her grasp by the slightest breeze. But you, you left an impression. The two nice blonde girls.” He tilted his head, watching her closely. “I assume that was also Ms. Page?”

Fiona didn’t respond, her heart pounding in her chest.

Wesley sighed, as if disappointed. “My employer—ah, old habits—Mr. Fisk… as I said, he loves his mother. He would be extremely disturbed if he knew you’d found her. Even more so that you took it upon yourself to speak to her.”

Fiona swallowed, keeping her expression as unreadable as she could. “So… he doesn’t know?”

“He’s preoccupied with more important matters,” Wesley said smoothly. “So I’ve taken it upon myself to address the situation.”

Fiona inhaled sharply, her body tensing. She knew what that meant. He was going to kill her.

She lifted her chin defiantly. “Then kill me already.”

Wesley let out a quiet chuckle. “Oh, Miss Nelson… I’m not here to kill you.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “I’m here to offer you a job.”

Fiona let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “A job?” she echoed, shaking her head. “What could you possibly want from me?”

Wesley looked at her like the answer was obvious. “It’s simple, really. A story. About what a good man Wilson Fisk is. The man this city needs.”

Fiona held his gaze, unflinching. “You might as well just kill me.”

Wesley sighed dramatically, like she was being difficult. “That would be a waste.” Then his tone darkened, his smirk fading. “But you won’t be the first to die, Miss Nelson. No, no… I think your brother, Franklin, will have that honor.”

Her blood ran cold.

Wesley leaned in slightly, watching her reaction with satisfaction. “Then Ms. Page. And Mr. Murdock. Then your family, and anyone else you may care about. And when you have no more tears left to shed… then—” he smiled, tilting his head— “then, we’ll come for you, Miss Nelson.”

Fiona felt like she was suffocating, the weight of his words pressing down on her like an iron grip around her throat.

Then—his phone rang.

For the slightest moment, his attention flickered downward. It was barely anything—a fraction of a second.

But it was enough.

Fiona didn’t think. She moved.

Her hand shot out, grabbing the gun off the table, her fingers curling around the handle as she pulled it toward her. She raised it with both hands, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she aimed it straight at him.

Wesley lifted his gaze to her, amused. Unbothered.

“You really think I would put a loaded gun on the table where you could reach it?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

Fiona’s hands trembled, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice low. “I guess we’ll find out.”

He stood slowly, his movements calm, like he knew she wouldn’t do it. “Miss Nelson—”

BANG.

The shot rang out, deafening.

Wesley staggered backward, his mouth parting in shock.

Then another shot.

And another.

Fiona kept pulling the trigger, again and again, the force of each shot jarring her arm as she emptied the entire clip into him.

By the time the gun clicked empty, Wesley was slumped in his chair, lifeless.

Dead.

Fiona let out a sharp breath, her whole body frozen in place. Her ears were ringing, her hands shaking violently.

She shot him.

She had actually shot him.

And he was dead.

Her mind raced, her pulse erratic. She felt like she couldn’t breathe.

Then—his phone started ringing again.

The sound snapped her out of it.

Quickly, she grabbed the gun, and wiped down the table with the sleeve of her jacket. She turned on her heel and ran. Out the door. Out of the building.

She ran.

• • • • • • •

When Fiona got home, she barely made it to the bathroom before collapsing onto the cold tile, her hands gripping the edges of the toilet bowl as her stomach twisted violently. She gagged, heaving up nothing but bile, her body rejecting everything even though she knew it would never be enough to get rid of the weight pressing down on her chest.

She had thrown the gun into the river, watched it disappear beneath the dark water, but it didn’t change anything.

She had killed someone.

Her hands shook as she clutched the toilet seat, gasping for air between ragged sobs. The memory played over and over in her mind, unrelenting. The sound of the shots ringing in her ears, the way Wesley’s body jerked with each bullet, his eyes widening in shock before they went dull. His blood pooling across the table, soaking into his suit, his body slumping lifelessly in the chair. It wouldn’t leave her. It wouldn’t go away.

Her breath hitched, and she scrambled to her feet, nearly stumbling as she tore at her clothes, desperate to get them off. She needed to wash this off. She needed to feel clean.

She stepped into the shower without waiting for the water to warm, twisting the handle all the way until it was nearly scalding. The heat stung her skin, but she welcomed it, scrubbing her hands, her arms, her face—every inch of herself—until her skin was raw. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, it wasn’t enough. She could still feel it. The blood, the weight of the gun in her hands, the way her fingers had tightened around the trigger.

Her knees buckled, and she slid down the shower wall, curling in on herself as the water poured down over her. Her breath came in quick, uneven gasps, her chest tightening as a sob tore from her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rushing water.

She didn’t know who she was apologizing to.

To Wesley?

To Foggy?

To Karen?

To Matt?

To herself?

“I didn’t mean to,” she choked out, shaking her head as more sobs wracked her body. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t—”

But she had.

She had pulled the trigger.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until the clip was empty. Until there was nothing left. Until Wesley was dead.

She pressed her forehead against her knees, squeezing her eyes shut as if that would somehow erase the image burned into her mind. But it was still there, lurking behind her eyelids, waiting for her.

She had killed someone.

And she had no idea how she was supposed to live with that.

Eventually, the water started to run cold, but Fiona barely felt it. She sat there, shivering under the relentless spray, her fingers curled around her arms, nails digging into her skin as if that could ground her, as if that could keep her from spiraling even further.

She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, but eventually, her body gave in to exhaustion. Her limbs felt heavy, her head pounding from crying too hard for too long. Slowly, she reached out and turned the water off, the sudden silence pressing down on her like a weight.

Dragging herself out of the shower, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself, but she barely had the energy to dry off. Her hair was dripping, strands sticking to her face as she walked into her bedroom on unsteady legs.

She didn’t bother turning on the lights.

Didn’t bother putting on clothes.

She just crawled into bed and curled up into a ball, tucking her knees against her chest. The sheets felt cold against her damp skin, but she didn’t care. She pulled the blankets up over her head, burying herself in the darkness.

But sleep didn’t come.

She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing him.

Wesley.

His body slumped in that chair.

His blood seeping into the fabric of his suit.

She turned onto her other side, then onto her back, then onto her stomach, but it didn’t matter. No position felt comfortable. No amount of shifting could shake the weight sitting heavy in her chest.

Fisk was going to find out. He was going to know. And then what? Would he send someone after her?

After Foggy?

After Karen?

Would he hurt Matt?

The thought made her stomach twist all over again, bile rising in her throat, but she forced it down.

And even if Fisk never found out, even if she somehow got away with it, what would happen when they found out?

Foggy. Karen. Matt.

She squeezed her eyes shut, dread curling in her stomach like a vice.

What would they see when they looked at her?

Would they see her?

Or would they only see what she had done?

She didn’t know. And that terrified her more than anything.

• • • • • • •

It was still early, too early for anyone else to be in the office, but Karen had barely slept. She sat at her desk, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold, watching as Foggy grabbed his bag, ready to leave.

He hadn’t said much, just a muttered see you later, when the door swung open, and Matt walked in.

Immediately, the air shifted.

Foggy barely spared him a glance as he turned toward the door, but Karen had had enough.

“Okay,” she said, standing abruptly. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, and frankly, I don’t care. But something is going on with Fiona.”

That made Foggy stop.

His brows furrowed as he turned back. “What do you mean?”

Karen hesitated, glancing at Matt before sighing. “She called me last night. She was crying.”

Matt’s head snapped up at that, his jaw tightening. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Karen admitted. “She didn’t tell me much, just that she felt like she couldn’t do this anymore. Like everything was getting to be too much. She was—” Karen exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I’ve never heard her like that before.”

Foggy frowned, setting his bag down on the desk.

“I think something happened,” Karen continued. “And whatever it is, it’s bad.”

Foggy and Matt exchanged glances, and for the first time since their fight, something passed between them. A silent understanding.

Karen didn’t let up. “So whatever the hell is going on between you two? Put it aside. Because your sister,” she looked at Foggy, then turned to Matt, “and your girlfriend is falling apart.”

• • • • • • •

Foggy was the first to come see her.

The knock on her door made Fiona’s breath catch in her throat. She had been sitting on the couch, dressed but unmoving, staring blankly at the wall. Her heart pounded at the sound, irrational fear clawing at her chest. Fisk. Or someone he sent. Someone who knew what she had done.

“Fiona, it’s me,” Foggy called out. “Come on, let me in.”

She exhaled shakily, relief washing over her—but it wasn’t enough to steady her. She wasn’t ready to see anyone, wasn’t ready to face anything beyond the walls of her apartment. Slowly, she stood and walked to the door, hesitating before cracking it open just an inch.

“I’m not feeling well right now,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.

Foggy sighed. “Come on, Fi. I know you’re mad at me, and I’m really sorry. I was drinking last night, and I was being a dick.”

“It’s fine, Foggy. I’m not mad,” she said, gripping the edge of the door.

“Then let me in and tell me that to my face,” he countered.

She swallowed hard. “I can’t right now, okay? I’m sick.”

Foggy frowned, leaning in slightly. “What’s wrong? Karen said you were crying—”

“Foggy, I’m fine,” she interrupted, too quickly, too forcefully. “Please, just go. I’ll call you later, I promise.”

Before he could protest, she shut the door, locking it immediately.

She pressed her forehead against the wood, closing her eyes as guilt twisted in her stomach. Lying to him felt awful. But the truth? That was worse.

• • • • • • •

Matt knew something was wrong before he even knocked.

Standing outside Fiona’s door, he could hear her heartbeat—faint but rapid, anxiety thrumming beneath her skin. And when he knocked, it spiked. That reaction wasn’t new; people startled when they weren’t expecting someone. But what worried him was that it didn’t slow when he spoke.

“Fi, it’s me,” he called out gently.

There was a beat of hesitation before the door unlocked and opened just a fraction, just enough for him to see part of her face.

“Hi, Matty,” she said, her voice light, almost too casual—too normal.

But he could hear it, the strain beneath her words, the exhaustion weighing down every syllable. He could feel the way her fingers gripped the door, like she needed something solid to hold onto.

Matt tilted his head, listening, reaching out in the way only he could. She hadn’t been sleeping well. Her breathing was uneven, her body tense, like she was bracing herself for something.

“I wanted to check on you,” he said, keeping his tone soft. “Karen said you were upset.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly.

Matt’s jaw tightened. He could tell she was lying, but he didn’t push—at least not yet.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

She hesitated again, her grip tightening on the door. “I, uh… it’s a mess in here.”

“I don’t mind,” he said.

Her heartbeat stuttered, and she let out a quiet laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “I know you don’t, but I do.”

“Fiona,” he murmured, taking a step closer, lowering his voice. “Talk to me.”

She swallowed, looking down for a moment before forcing a smile. “Matty, really. I’m okay.”

Matt exhaled, resisting the urge to reach for her. “You don’t sound okay.”

She shifted, looking over her shoulder as if checking for something before turning back to him. “I just… I need some time, okay?”

Matt didn’t move. He could hear her heartbeat racing, could hear the way her breaths came in short, uneven bursts, like she was on the verge of breaking.

“Fi,” he said carefully, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?”

The question barely left his lips before she inhaled sharply, a sound so small and shaky that it barely registered as a breath. Then, like a dam bursting, her shoulders began to tremble, and a soft, broken sob escaped her.

“Fiona,” Matt whispered, his concern twisting into something deeper. He pressed against the door, and she didn’t fight him—didn’t move, didn’t push back. She just let go.

The moment he was inside, she crumbled completely.

Matt caught her as she stumbled forward, her hands gripping the front of his shirt, twisting into the fabric like she was trying to hold herself together. But she was shaking too hard, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as she tried to speak, tried to force something out.

“I—” she tried, but nothing followed.

Matt held her tighter, his arms wrapped firmly around her, one hand cradling the back of her head as she buried her face against his chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice steady. “Angel, it’s okay. Just breathe.”

She shook her head violently against him.

“Whatever it is, you can talk to me,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over the curve of her shoulder. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Fiona sucked in another shaky breath, her fingers clenching into fists against him. She tried again, her voice so quiet it was barely a whisper.

“I— I did s—”

Her throat closed up.

She gasped, pulling back just enough to try again.

“I—”

Her voice broke completely, a sob wracking through her. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut, her whole body trembling as she fought to get the words out.

Matt’s hands settled on either side of her face, tilting her head up gently. “Fiona, hey, look at me.”

She did, and he could feel the way her lashes were soaked, how her breath hitched with every heartbeat.

“Whatever it is,” he told her, his voice quiet but unwavering, “I can fix it.”

Fiona let out a small, desperate laugh—except it wasn’t a laugh at all. It was a choked, helpless sound, her whole body shuddering against his.

“You can’t,” she whispered, shaking her head.

“I can,” he insisted, his grip firm but gentle. “Just tell me what happened.”

Fiona opened her mouth. Then closed it. She exhaled shakily, her chest rising and falling unevenly, her fingers gripping his wrist like a lifeline.

“I—”

She still couldn’t say it.

Matt didn’t push.

Instead, he guided her toward the couch, letting her collapse onto the cushions as he sat beside her, keeping his arm around her.

Fiona curled into herself, her knees pulled up, arms wrapped tightly around her body like she was trying to disappear.

Matt just stayed with her, his hand never leaving her back, rubbing slow, reassuring circles.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair.

She didn’t answer.

She just sat there, breathing unevenly, curled into herself as Matt held onto her—waiting.

Fiona must have cried herself to sleep because when she woke up, the apartment was dark, and she was still curled up against Matt on the couch. Her body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and the remnants of her tears. As she shifted, Matt stirred beside her, his voice low and rough from sleep.

“Hey,” he murmured into the quiet.

She blinked, disoriented for a moment before realizing where she was. “Hi,” she whispered back, rubbing at her tired eyes. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Matt shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “You must’ve really needed it.”

Fiona exhaled, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “Not any more than anybody else,” she mumbled.

Matt let a beat of silence pass before he spoke again, his voice gentle. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

Fiona shook her head, staring down at where their hands were still loosely intertwined. “No,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

Matt didn’t press. He just gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Okay,” he said simply. After another moment, his lips quirked into a small smile. “By the way… I really liked the cupcakes you brought me.”

She glanced up at him, surprised by the shift in conversation. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. They were good,” he said. “Sweet. Thoughtful.”

A soft, tired laugh escaped her. “I paid extra to have ‘Get Well Soon’ written on them, you know.”

Matt grinned. “You mentioned that.”

Fiona let her head drop back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. Then, suddenly, she stiffened. “Oh my god, Matt.”

“What?”

She sat up straighter, her eyes scanning him with fresh concern. “I didn’t even ask—how are you feeling? Is everything healing okay? Are you in pain?”

Matt tilted his head, amused by the sudden burst of worry. “Fiona—”

“I mean, I know you said it hurts when you breathe, but how bad is it? Do you need anything? Have you been taking something for it? And I—” She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “God, I’m sorry, I didn’t even check on you.”

Matt reached out, gently taking her hand and pulling it away from her face. “Hey,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Don’t apologize.”

Fiona sighed, her shoulders slumping. “But I should’ve—”

“No,” he cut her off, shaking his head. “You were upset, Fiona. You still are. That’s what matters.”

She swallowed hard, looking away like she didn’t quite believe him. “I just…”

Matt squeezed her hand. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Put everyone else first,” he said. “You worry about Foggy, about Karen, about me. You make sure everyone else is okay before you even think about yourself.”

Fiona opened her mouth to argue but hesitated, realizing he wasn’t wrong.

Matt smiled softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You need to start thinking about yourself first sometimes.”

Fiona managed a small, tired smirk. “Yeah, well… you guys wouldn’t survive without me.”

Matt chuckled, shaking his head. “No, probably not.”